(no subject)
the set-up
1 a.m. and the hour's still early, and although i have my work set out in front of me it is difficult to concentrate. writing a new world is somewhat difficult when i have not written in what seems like decades. no desire. no restlessness, no worry, no desire. it seems that all of these changes brought about in me have created for me a very dull, expressionless world. but i am [vis versa] still expressing myself. i only talk about myself; though that's all i ever did. when i spoke of love, it rolled off of my fingertips into perfectly typed syllables of idiocy. now it seems i have nothing left to speak of. previously, this might leave me struck [worried; anxious]. of late, i've felt none of these. since i was thirteen, writing has been one of the few things i am good at. now that i am approaching eighteen, it's nowhere in sight. a hint; a clue; i think i've got it now. my last love killed my vague poetry; forced me out into the light, and into straight-talking, trash-talking, fast-talking, truth-spewing nowhere. here i am. now that everything's raw, my thoughts all placed one foot in front of the other, i can't find myself very interesting anymore. my words have no others to play on or around; they have dressed up in business suits and taken to driving to work alone; living alone; eating alone; sleeping alone; imitating human behavior. and this dull, restless planet has no time to recover from fatigue; attempts to wash away the pain of human recklessness. succeeds only in scattering the dominoes; they will be set up again. we all know this one thing: they will be set up again. still we choose leaders with our judgments and not our wit; still we pick fights within our comfort range; still we support meaningless causes. we overindulge. we know all of this. every single thing on top of another single thing. stacks. layers. underneath it all are catacombs; we are too rude to avert our gaze; we are too afraid to enter. for what might be found beneath the layers of confidence that what we do is right and true to ourselves may prove just the opposite. this way it is easier to place blame for personal clashes; sick feelings in the pits of stomaches as those we love are thrown across the room by those they used to; thin grimaces as metal collides with metal, ripping flesh in two; disgust as human animals turn to savages, ripping holes in each other with metal [flesh], abandoning everything they've ever known, roaming streets in packs to keep alive. we know we're wrong, so we send paper i.o.u.s to families, saying, "we hope you're well, you know you're always welcome here," secretly whispering between awkward silences and knowing ones, "there is no hope for this life anymore."
2 a.m. and the hour's still early. 2 a.m. and i'm content with life. i know it [this world] is all bullshit, i know it [this world] will all fall down. but we all have this feeling that tells us this one thing: it will be set up again.